Might Not Be
by undercrown
Summary: AU where Castiel is and always has been human.  Trying to see if I can stay in character and still have Dean and Cas end up together.  We'll see.
1. Chapter 1

Castiel opened his eyes. He knew without looking that it was five minutes before his initial alarm (which was itself set fifteen minutes early) was set to go off. He was still for a few seconds; he then sat up, turned to the side of the bed, and looked down at his feet. What would even happen if he didn't get out of bed?

His feet touched the ground. The man went through the morning motions: he reset his two alarms for the following day; he made his bed, taking care to face his pillowcase's seam away from the door; he brushed his teeth in circular motions. His shower was hot and short. He scrubbed the dampness from his hair with a towel, walked to his closet, and took one shirt, one tie, one jacket, and one set of trousers. As usual, from looking at the hanging clothes, it was impossible to tell he had removed anything from his closet at all. Nothing was noteworthy enough that he would spot that it was missing.

After dressing and pouring a half-cup of coffee, he found himself standing in front of his refrigerator. It was sectioned neatly into breakfast (soymilk for his oatmeal, fresh fruit, cottage cheese), lunch (pre-packed planned leftovers), and dinner (raw ingredients, whiskey). He bought the same items every week from the same store; he could find what he was looking for in the dark. Yet still he stood here every morning, wasting electricity, as he pretended that he had an important choice to make.

He decided he would go out for breakfast.

The dark-haired man ghosted out of his apartment and down the stairs. While he recognized most of his neighbors, there were certain units that seemed only to attract drifters. He had never understood the point of anything less than a one-year lease and would have gladly signed on for longer; his landlord's dislike of the idea notwithstanding, Castiel had now signed five consecutive one-year leases for the man.

Seeing the boxes in front of the landing of 4C was not surprising, then, as he could not recall a tenant staying for their full lease of it. Seeing the man who was carrying yet another box up arrested him. The stranger was so well-muscled that he appeared short, yet Castiel could tell even from here that he would have to look up at the man. The man had short, well-groomed hair above a face with wide eyes, pronounced cheekbones, and full lips half-pursed.

Castiel immediately knew that people must stare at the man all the time. With a shiver, his legs started moving again, and though he did not want to exist with the beautiful stranger so near he managed to descend to the landing without removing his eyes from the floor. He would have passed without incident had his eyes not disobeyed him and traveled up the full length of the man, taking in the stained and torn clothing, the tanned and scarred skin, and coming to rest on the back of the man's head.

How could even this be lovely?

He was shocked to hear the man's voice. "Sammy, dude, come on. What happened to that teamwork bullshit you were waxing on?" When there was no answer from the apartment, the man tossed down the box and turned away with a growl. When the man noticed Castiel, his eyebrows came together briefly before he faux-checked the suited man out. With a wink, the stranger said, "You see anything you like, sugar?"

Castiel's lips parted, yet all that escaped was his breath. He turned and fled down the stairs two at a time.

When he reached the bottom floor, he pressed his forehead against the glass of the door, just listening to his heart slow and finally steady.

He was no longer hungry.

—

Castiel rubbed his eyes. The documents spread across his desk could no longer hold his interest. In his haste this morning to prove that he was not chained to routine, he had forgotten to bring his lunch. His brain was quick to remind him that yesterday he had gone to sleep the moment he came home. A full day. While he was no stranger to fasting, he was still rattled from this morning; and his body had decided that his stomach, at least, ought to be satisfied.

Still, he pressed on. It was rare to get anything more interesting than a 1099 during tax season in this area, much less a full audit of a jointly-owned business in preparation for a nasty divorce. It was as near to scandalous as pure numbers could get.

Sharp pain in his back interrupted yet again. Frowning, he arranged the papers and resettled them into their manilla folders, setting a paperweight on each to prevent accidents. He stood, stretched, and shrugged on his trenchcoat.

The movement must have attracted Anna's attention for she looked up from her work. "Going out today?" He nodded. "You?" Frowned. "I'm not saying you can't, just that you don't. Well. Would you like company?"

"I would not be averse to it," he said.

She laughed softly. "You know all those stereotypes about us come from you, right?"

He only looked at her.

She laughed again, harder. "Let me get my purse." As she gathered up her things, Castiel stood by his desk, looking at hers. He did not understand why she would cover it with so many personal effects. The angel statues in particular unnerved him. He would not want to work while tiny plastic eyes watched him.

To escape them, he walked over to the window. Had he been able to hear her, he would have known she invited Uri; but he could not. He heard only the rush of his blood and, perhaps, a slight ringing: the beautiful man was outside.

Not looking at him—why would anyone?—but even so. The man was only walking by, and yet…

"Hey, you there at all?"

He dragged a breath in. "Of course. Where else would I be?"

She canted her head back. "Well, are you ready?"

In answer, he opened the door.

—

"No, really, who are you looking for?"

He stopped. Turned. Looked up at her and then back down. "Would you believe me if I said no one?"

"Castiel."

Inhale, exhale. "Just some guy."

"A guy?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"I am not in a position to tell you." He leaned against the wall. "Anna, I don't even know his name. This sounds impossible, at best, but I feel like I know him. Like we would have been something to each other in some other world. I feel like." He swallowed. "I feel like I'm losing my mind."

"Wow."

His pale eyes met her dark ones, and she could see a frown beginning in his eyebrows. She grinned.

"You've really got it bad, huh? Castiel Abrams, born-again teen."

He looked down and away.

"Well, what does this mystery man look like, anyway? If we're going to creep anyway, I may as well be in on it."

"I am not—let's just go back. This was a stupid idea. We can order takeout or pizza or something."

She took a step back, smile gone. "Are you sure?"

"No."

—

The cheese pizza was her favorite, but he didn't taste a single bite.

The audit didn't last the rest of the afternoon. He helped four clients prepare their taxes, though he silently critiqued their decisions not to do it themselves. By the end of the day, he had rearranged his desk twice: once to prove he could change; then to put it back again. He simply didn't feel comfortable when the stapler was to the right of the staple remover. It was inefficient and didn't read properly.

He knew he was killing time.

"Anna—"

"Oh, just get out already." He looked up in time to see her roll her eyes. "You're so sixteen today. I mean, fidgeting? Really? Anyway, none of us are doing any legitimate work, and I doubt anyone will need an emergency 1040EZ prepped at seven minutes to close."

"I was working very hard at pretending to work," said Uri.

"You are a rake and a fiend, sir! What're you guys' plans for tonight?" Anna would never understand that accountants didn't drink beer together after work, but Castiel liked that she still tried.

"The missus and I were going to watch some movie she's been excited about for a while, but it doesn't seem like it'll be all that bad."

"Oh! What is it?"

"_Safe House_. She's going for Denzel Washington, and, let's be honest, so am I."

"Well, he is a triple threat: looks, intelligence, and quantifiable badassery. How about you?"

They both turned to him. "I don't believe you would want me to answer that question honestly."

Uriel threw a wadded-up piece of paper at him while Anna said, "Aw, man, gross!"

"What? I was going to drink and watch today's _Doctor Sexy_. What did you think I meant?"

The other man laughed. "Well, I don't know which is worse: that you don't know, or that you watch that garbage."

"It's a good show that raises real ethical dilemmas."

"Yeah, and one of the characters is a doctor who wears cowboy boots. I'm not saying I don't have guilty pleasures, but that's going a bit far."

He shrugged off their attention and picked up his suitcase. "Goodnight. I will see you both on Monday."

"Unless I win the lottery."

"That is a given."

The bell's ring from above the door cut off any reply they might have come up with. He joined the stream of people, wondering what they might be thinking of. That woman: was she late? Did that man quit his job today? Who were they going home to? If they were ever going home again at all.

Reaching his building, he pulled out his keys, but dropped them when someone pushed him from behind. Stooping to pick them up, he was jostled again, but this time it was because a man had crouched beside him, perhaps to help him recover his lost keys.

"Sorry, man."

"It happens."

They straightened together, although the stranger seemed to take much longer to unfold. When at last they stood next to each other, the accountant had to tilt his head back in order to speak with the stranger.

"Were you aware that you are preternaturally tall?"

The guy laughed. "You sound like my brother. Well, sort of. I'm Sam, Sam Winchester. You live here, too?"

"Yes. I live on the fifth floor."

The other man—Sam—quirked an eyebrow. "And your name?"

"Oh. Castiel."

"That's an unusual name."

"So I've been told."

A pause. Then, "Well, like I said, I'm new. Are there any good restaurants around here?" Opening the door, Sam let Castiel enter first. They ascended the stairs together.

"That depends on your personal palate, but I am fond of a few of the delis. There is not a decent steakhouse for many blocks, but there are a few passable burger places. Pizza here is abundant and good. I do not enjoy many Asian dishes, so I cannot report on the local quality or authenticity. We do, however, occasionally attract the best taco truck in the world." He stopped. "I have lived here for a while."

They were nearing the fourth floor landing. His palms started to itch.

"No need to explain. I think about food all the time."

"Could've fooled me, man. You hungry yet?"

With a jolt, Castiel recognized the voice and froze on the stair below the platform. Of course, that "you" wasn't directed at him—none of it was—what was he thinking? As the tall man (Sam, he reminded himself) left his side, he looked down at his shoes. He could tell by their banter that they were comfortable with each other. They probably wouldn't want him to stick around.

He really was becoming a teenager.

Frowning, he walked across the floor, trying to pay them no mind. He was on the third step above them when he heard his name. He turned to find them both looking at him.

"Sorry, that was kind of rude, wasn't it? This is my brother, Dean, and this is Castiel."

The man—Dean—smiled. "Yeah, we met. Who named you, anyway?"

"My father. I was born on a Thursday."

Blank stares.

"Castiel is the name of a minor angel whose domain is Thursday," he said as he descended.

"Oh, cool! We were named after our grandparents."

"Shut up."

"Samuel and Dean—" Sam started, but was interrupted by Dean punching him in the arm, which only made him laugh.

"I hate you."

"Anyway, we were wondering if you could show us one of those burger joints? It'd be nice to know a local."

Without even worrying about missing _Doctor Sexy_, Castiel said, "I would like that."

He did not notice he was still carrying his briefcase until they were on the ground floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Not sure how in-character this is. Even so, sorry for the length. :(**

* * *

><p>The only thing that would have been worse than sitting across from Dean would have been sitting next to him. Castiel tried to focus on all the things that could have gone wrong, but hadn't: he could have jostled Dean's elbow; he could have touched the other man's thigh. Things could be much worse, really.<p>

But facing Dean gave Castiel few places to look as the man's lips parted to admit his straw, or as he bared his straight white teeth to rip apart his burger, or as he licked barbecue sauce from his fingers.

Castiel tried, of course. While ordering, he pored over the description of foods he had no intention of trying. When the waitress came for their orders, he focused only on her. Once she had brought their drinks and taken the menus, though, his distractions dwindled down.

Thankfully, Sam was genuine in his desire to make a new friend.

"What do you do for a living?"

"I am a certified public accountant." Pause. "And yourself?"

"Doesn't that have an acronym?"

Sam glared at his brother. "I'm going to school, and Dean works on cars."

"That doesn't seem like it would be prosperous here."

"In the city? No shit. Guess that's why I'm only here to help Sammy move in."

"Ah."

The waitress had brought their food then, and Castiel had privately thanked her for the interruption. He hadn't known what he did now.

Dean picked up his burger with both hands and brought it to his lips. Castiel looked down, wondering how he should ask Dean to pass the ketchup. The other man seemed thoroughly occupied with his food, and he found that he didn't want to interrupt.

Catching himself staring once more, he turned instead to Sam.

"What do you intend to study?"

"I think I'm going to major in English with a Communication minor, but I don't know. I was told that they're two good pre-law choices."

Castiel nodded. "It would certainly help when parsing other lawyers' arguments."

"Don't encourage him. He's basically going to spend four years working on his puppy eyes and writing poetry. I still don't know why you can't learn about verbs and nouns a little closer to home."

Castiel shrank into his seat, hoping to distance himself from the glare directed at Sam. The corners of the briefcase dug into his ribs. He wished, briefly, that he could disappear.

"Dean…"

"Yeah, yeah, 'we've talked about this.'"

"Well, we have!"

"And I still think you're wrong."

"No offense? But that's not really your place to decide."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Look, can we not do this here?"

"Why, afraid your girlfriend's going to know what a bitch you are?"

As the brothers argued, Castiel shifted his gaze down to his chicken sandwich and knew that his face must match the tomatoes set to the side. Though it was inappropriate, his hunger chose that moment to resurface. He was glad of it, though, and concentrated on arranging the lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, and cheddar in the manner that he liked. He did not believe that anything ruined a sandwich as utterly as misapplied condiments. Having eaten entirely too many sandwiches that started with cheese (thus filming his teeth) or ended with lettuce (where the crunch was hardly satisfactory), he was very specific.

"That must be the most interesting sandwich ever."

Castiel started at the change of tone. Looking up, he saw that Sam was gone and turned back to Dean."He went to cool off. He'll probably come back and act like nothing happened. Kinda our thing."

"My brothers would never let me walk away from a fight, although I suppose we are not truly comparable. I cannot imagine that they would take time off work to help me do something they were against."

"Yeah, well, he's my brother, you know?"

"I cannot say that I do."

Dean shifted and looked down. For his part, Castiel was pleased to have finally made a Winchester uncomfortable. The first bite of his sandwich was perfect.

The other man took up his food again. Castiel noted that he was already halfway finished and smiled. He must have continued eating right through the argument.

The two were silent as they ate, the one nibbling and the other… well, there wasn't really a concise word for how Dean ate. It was messy and practical and primal. In any other man, Castiel imagined he would find it repulsive. With this one, as with so much else, he found that he could let it slide.

Still, his fries were growing cold. "Would you pass the ketchup, please?"

"Mmm" accompanied the glass bottle as it slid near him. With a slight huff of effort, he twisted the lid off and upturned the bottle.

Nothing came out.

Frowning, he shook the damnable thing, but the only result was that Dean started shaking. Looking up, he saw that the man was biting his wrist to keep from laughing.

When the other man looked up again, what he saw on Castiel's face made him downright cackle.

"What."

"Oh my god, man, you are so fucking pissed right now."

"I fail to see the humor in that."

Shaking his head, Dean only held out his hand, and so Castiel relinquished the condiment. He angled it and began hitting the bottom with the heel of his hand. "Dammit." He half-stood, leaning over the table to get better leverage. Castiel pressed his back into the booth and focused on breathing.

With a cry of triumph, Dean looked to Castiel as ketchup plopped onto the plate. The grin faded as the two men gazed at each other, green eyes meeting blue. Castiel's traitorous mind directed his eyes down to Dean's lips, so very close, and he released a soft breath.

"Staring contest?"

The force of Dean's recoil caused the bolted-down table to wobble. Turning away, he said with half a smile, "Hey, Sammy."

"No witty repartee?"

"Why would I need any?"

"Uh-huh."

"He couldn't get the ketchup out, asshole. Besides, where have you been?"

"Getting you a present, douchebag." Sam set down a slice of cherry pie and folded himself enough to sit next to Castiel. "They didn't have apple."

Pulling the peace offering toward him, Dean licked his lips. "We should fight in public more often."

"You're impossible."

"The word you're looking for is 'adorable.'"

"Somehow, I don't think it is." Turning to Castiel, he said, "I'm sorry for dragging you into our festival of brotherly love." He started, then looked at Dean. "What the hell?"

With both of them looking expectantly at him, Dean could only shake his head.

It clicked. "I believe he was trying to tell you to avoid the subject of family, but that is not necessary. However, I reject your apology on the grounds that there is nothing to apologize for." Castiel shrugged. "You're family, and you're stressed. It happens."

"Oh. Well, thank you for being cool, then."

"It is but one service I offer."

The Winchesters looked at each other, then turned to him. "Was that a joke?"

"Perhaps."

Once more, a silence settled over the table as the men ate. If Castiel thought that Dean's table manners were vulgar before, now they were pornographic. The red berries stained his tongue and lips and, god, he was gorgeous. As Dean licked filling from his fork, he looked up, catching Castiel's eye. He slipped the fork between his lips and sucked on it gently, never breaking eye contact.

"Man, this is so good," said the giant to Castiel's left.

Castiel simply looked at him while Dean chuckled.

"What?"

"Never change, Sammy."

After looking from one to the other, Sam shook his head and went back to his salad. "Just because you two don't care about your blood sugar—"

Dean laughed, covering his face with one hand. "Yeah, because that's what this is about."

"Whatever, jerk."

"Bitch."

When Sam returned his attention to his food, Castiel tried to follow his lead and picked up the nearly-untouched sandwich.

Until the accountant felt warmth and pressure along the inside of his thigh. Lips parted, he raised his eyes until once more he locked gazes with his tormentor. Dean raised his eyebrows and leaned forward to dip his fry in Castiel's ketchup. Bringing it up to his lips, he leaned back again and watched, inching his foot nearer to his goal.

With a gasp, Castiel slammed into the back of the booth, but even that didn't remove Dean's foot from his groin. Long-legged bastard. With a growl, he asked Sam to stand, and as he slid across the vinyl he couldn't help but notice Dean's shit-eating grin.

_You see anything you like, sugar?_

His hands spasmed into fists.

Knowing how ridiculous he looked next to Sam, he strode away, wishing that he could have been even an inch taller, five pounds more muscled. Not some twinky douchebag throwing a fit.

Tantrum or not, pathetic or not, he felt good for walking away. The idea of being included was nice, but he knew better. He should have stayed home.

He would, next time.

Reaching the bathroom, he walked in and went straight for the taps. He turned on the cold water, letting it run over his hands. Bending, he splashed some water on his face, watching as the droplets fell into the pool below.

Castiel did not look up when the door opened. Instead, he turned off the faucet and reached out to grab a paper towel.

His hand met flesh instead.

Dean held out a paper towel. Looking from his face to his proferred hand, Castiel finally decided that he wasn't smiling and took the offering by the corner. Dean let the napkin fall and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the wall.

Castiel returned to his ablutions. When he was satisfied that his face had returned to its usual shade and temperature, he dried his hands, swiping the paper cloth between his fingers and beneath his nails. Turning away from Dean, he tossed the used paper into the bin and started for the door.

"So, what, you're not even gonna be pissy with me?"

"No."

Dean stepped closer, reaching out. "It was just a joke."

But Castiel had already stepped out the door.

—

He did not bother to turn the lights on when he got home. The layout was simple, and of course there was no chance that something would be out of place: there was no one to displace it.


End file.
